


Big Iron On His Hip

by Stoney



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, Chaps, Derk Hale looks mighty fine astride a horse, Humor, John Stilinski is Tuco basically, Kate Argent gets her comeuppance, M/M, Stiles can't help but be instantly attracted to Derek, Tongue-in-cheek, but then so does Derek, he has eyes, wild west shootout
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-30
Updated: 2014-07-30
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:47:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2050635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stoney/pseuds/Stoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a good life. Steady. Quiet. No surprises. Not a one. Not in over six years. Nada, as some of the cowboys said. No sirree, Beacon Hills didn't have a lick of drama or intrigue happening within its county lines. Not one little bit.  Day in and day out, not a single surprise to cause a lick of worry. Stiles sighed and folded his towel carefully. Bored. He was bored. It was <i>boring</i> living in Beacon Hills. </p><p>...maybe just a <i>little</i> something interesting happening could be nice for a change, though. </p><p>Stiles would soon learn what the phrase “eat your own words” meant.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Iron On His Hip

**Author's Note:**

> This was an excuse to use every trope from every western in a fic because let's face it: Stiles with those stretchy bands on his biceps and Derek in chaps is a must have visual. Also, any excuse to make the Sheriff even more awesome is one I'm taking.
> 
> Thanks to Flaming_Muse for the beta read and making me sell the jokes better. :)
> 
> Gratuitous use of lines from The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, True Grit, and the Magnificent Seven are sprinkled here and there. Title comes from an old cowboy ballad and makes me giggle at the double entendre. Take a holt, y'all, and lemme spin you a yarn.

Stiles wiped down the last of the high balls and slapped the end of the towel on the edge of the bar to knock any errant flakes of dust off, surveying the modest crowd. Pretty typical for a late morning on Wednesday in the saloon: a few cowpokes looking for work playing cards in the corner, the widows McCall and Martin having lunch and a round of gossip, Erica wandering through them all while dangling her not-insignificant and be-frilled bosom in the faces of potential customers, and sitting in the corner near the bar, Isaac jangling out a moderately lively tune on their upright piano. Beacon Hills was no Tombstone, hell it wasn't much of anything, but it was pleasant to live in.

Stiles' father was the town's sheriff, and he kept a good handle on keeping out the potential mayhem other small western towns faced with increasing regularity in these rough times. Before the Stilinskis had rolled into Beacon Hills six years prior, a corrupt old Forty-Niner-turned-self-appointed-Sheriff by the name of Gerard Argent had the town—and its coffers—under his scheming thumb, running the former sheriff Talia Hale out of Beacon Hills for good, it seemed, by burning down their family's claim shanty on the outskirts of town and threatening the woman's family. Grift and outright intimidation was the name of _his_ game.

John Stilinski, Stiles' father, had run him out on rails, had literally hog-tied Argent and thrown him and his right-hand-man, er, woman—his daughter, Kate Argent—into an empty train car after learning how he'd swindled the Widow McCall out of most of her life savings for “protection.” He of course had recovered the stolen coin—Stiles had no doubt in his father's abilities—and with a grin and a tip of his hat, John had handed it back to the blushing and smiling young widow. With Stiles puffed up and cocksure behind him, John had then stood on Main Street, both hands hovering over his side arms as he eyed the townsfolk.

“There's a new Sheriff in town,” he'd called out, nodding at the crowd. “If you'll have me.”

A cheer had gone up, and that was that. Beacon Hills was now a quiet sleepy town where cowboys came to wet their whistles (whenever Erica purred that in Stiles' ear, he blushed for some reason), where widows came to retire in safety, and where farmers and tradesmen had a steady crop of customers for their goods and services.

Stiles ran the saloon, which also served as the General Store, the Town Hall, and given the looks of the seriousness of conversation between Stiles' best pal Scott McCall—the blushing and pretty young widow's son—and some old-timer wincing over his busted arm, as the local hospital, too.

Well, at least it hadn't turned into a vet. Greenberg's prized oxen would have had a rough time fitting through the bat-wing doors that marked the entrance. Not to mention the mess they'd make...

It was a good life. Steady. Quiet. No surprises. Not a one. Not in over six years. Nada, as some of the cowboys said. No sirree, Beacon Hills didn't have a lick of drama or intrigue happening within its county lines. Not one little bit. Not even a single cow-eyed gal (or guy, for that matter) batting long and seductive eyelashes at one Stiles Stilinski.

Nope, the scene in the saloon that day was the same as it always was since the Stilinskis settled there: folks behaving themselves and going about their business as usual. Day in and day out, not a single surprise to cause a lick of worry. Stiles sighed and folded his towel carefully. Bored. He was bored. It was _boring_ living in Beacon Hills. 

Now, it wasn't like he would've preferred living in Tombstone. With all those “working ladies” swindling their customers? The criminals in charge and running things? Bunch of rassle-frassle, good for nothing hooligans, Pa had said just the other night while reading the paper. Drunken brawls on Sunday? Shootouts? On _Main Street?_ Why, Stiles had read in the paper that one troublemaker shot and killed a fellow just for insisting they go out drinking more!

No, that wasn't the life for Stiles Stilinski. He didn't have a lick of interest in that sort of thing. Sure, it would have been fascinating to have _seen_ some of that, from a safe distance and all, but up close and personal? Where his _father_ would have to be involved? No, that wasn't the life for him.

...maybe just a _little_ something interesting happening could be nice for a change, though. 

Stiles would soon learn what the phrase “eat your own words” meant.

*

It was a good Saturday, the place packed with just about everybody in their small town stopping in for a drink, a bite to eat or a visit. Erica was draped loosely over Isaac's shoulder, singing along as he accompanied her on the piano, a few adventurous townsfolk joining in on the rowdy chorus, when the batwing doors to the saloon crashed open and the sound of spurs jingling rang out alongside the distinctive noise of boot heels on the well-worn floor.

The whole place went quiet, collectively holding their breath, it seemed. Stiles turned to look and saw a dark silhouette against the bright light outside, decked head to toe in black, well-worn leather. Well-formed, too. Stiles gulped, the dirty glass in his hand slipping to the bar where it clattered around before he could still it with a sweaty palm. Isaac, his hands still poised just over the piano keys, carefully leaned back, slammed the lid shut and nodded, tipping his hat, and slipped out the door behind the bar, knocking Stiles forward slightly in his haste.

Erica, a sly look on her face, took a step towards the dark stranger until Boyd, the town's blacksmith, grabbed her and kept her still. She didn't seem to mind too much, if her grin was anything to go by.

The stranger in the doorway took another two steps in, the shadows moving enough to reveal a handsome, whiskered face, one set with a strong jaw, full lips, and green eyes that seemed to be filled with malice. Before Stiles could open his mouth to ask what he could do for the fellow—and there was a growing laundry list of items not normally offered by the younger Stilinski that he'd be happy to include because golly, was that stranger a handsome man—the man silenced any potential conversation when he held up one hand.

It appeared to be injured, given the blood dripping down from it in soft pit-pats to the well-scrubbed wood floor. Well, that was just going to be a pain in the neck to clean later. No one ever thought about how hard it was to scrub blood out of wood flooring, which was another reason why Stiles had no interest in living in a shoot-em-up town like Deadwood or—

“I'm looking for the sumbitch who shot my Pa.”

Stiles jammed a finger in his ear, wiggling it around. For some crazy reason, he thought he'd heard the mystery-man utter the word “paw.” The stranger had a pretty soft voice, sounded sort of rough from disuse, Stiles thought.

Squinting, Stiles asked, “Your Pa?” and made a hand gesture, waving it up and down.

The strange man tilted his head, startled, it seemed by Stiles' appearance. That quickly burned away to him looking displeased and irritated. “What.”

“It's just that, well, your hand. Pa?” Stiles asked, making another up and down motion with his hand to indicate a tall man—his dad was tall, after all—and then asked, “Or your paw?” and shook his hand like he burned it, licking the side of it like a cat would for good measure.

The man blushed. Probably he was just hot in his leather get up. He should probably take some of that off. Slowly. 

The man asked, “You see anyone come through here with a smoking gun?”

“Uh,” Stiles looked around the room. Erica was leaning back against Boyd, Harris was trying to steal Greenberg's chips until Finstock—without looking—slapped the back of Harris' head. “That would be a no,” Stiles replied. “No smoking guns. Actually, I don't allow any smoking what with my pal Scott having—”

The mystery man growled and stormed out.

As soon as the doors swung shut, the room erupted in excited chatter. Stiles put one hand on the polished wood of the bar and hopped over, getting tangled up in one of the bar stools and crashing to the floor, kicking at it until it let his legs go—ornery things, bar stools—and raced after the fellow. It was curiosity, that was all. Curious to find out if he was hurt, to find out if he needed help, to find out if those whiskers tickled.

He pushed through the doors, wincing at the bright afternoon sunlight. There in the middle of the dirt thoroughfare that was Main Street stood the mystery man, slightly turned away from the saloon, his chest heaving as he stared off in the distance, his head tipped up slightly.

He was quite a sight, Stiles thought, sagging against one of the posts out front and grinning. Tall, about as much as Stiles was, broad shoulders, muscles from steady work, and well-worn chaps that framed the man's backside just as pretty as a picture. Stiles remembered thinking that the man had been injured and looked for the wounded hand. There was dried blood on the man's right hand, but Stiles couldn't see any sign of gunshot, no broken fingers, nothing. The man must have helped someone bleeding.

“Right. Your pa,” Stiles murmured, his stomach clenching briefly at the thought of how terrified he'd be if anyone had shot _his_ father.

Quick as lightning, the man whirled around and after looking Stiles up and down so thoroughly it made Stiles blush, he said coolly, “You looking for trouble, boy?”

“Is that your name?” Stiles asked, smirking and leaning against the post in a way he hoped was becoming. “If so, looks like I found you. Not much of a name, Trouble, though I don't have any room to talk, seeing as my name—my _real_ name is—”

“Are you simple or something?” the man asked, his face looking concerned and strangely disappointed all of a sudden.

Stiles laughed. “No, you asked if I was looking for 'trouble,' and since I was looking at you, which is not a hardship, believe me,” he said with a lascivious grin, “I guess I figured your—”

“Would you shut up?” the man hissed, eyebrows knit together. “I'm listening.”

“But...if I shut up,” Stiles asked, scratching his head, “how can you be listening to me?”

The man rolled his eyes so hard that his body rocked back with it. “Not to you. I'm listening,” he said pointing wildly at the street. “Now quiet, 'fore I shut you up myself.”

Stiles stepped forward, gripping the horizontal bar of a hitching post and leaning over it. Erica had told him that when he leaned against the bar the same way, the elasticized bands at his biceps that held his shirt sleeves in place made him look especially strong. “Just how do you plan on shutting me up, pardner?” He waggled his eyebrows at the man, like Erica would do for a customer. He'd taken a few pages out of her book on how to attract a man. Hey, if it worked for her, maybe it would for him, too. Eventually.

The man gave Stiles his full attention again, a droll, humorless expression on his face. “Would a bullet in your throat do the trick, you think?”

“Wow, okay,” Stiles huffed, sagging his shoulders a bit. “No need to get all shooty and stuff.” 

“Is that even a word?” the man asked, cocking an eyebrow and looking perplexed. “I'm having a hard time getting a bead on you. You sure you're not simple? Maybe got kicked in the head a few times too many?”

“Now, there's no need for insults, buddy. I was just trying to point out that you're a tall drink of water on a hot summer's day.” That was how Erica had roped Isaac within the first five minutes of his arrival in Beacon Hills. And Boyd. And—not the point. The point was how this stranger was making Stiles feel all breathless and excited, almost desperate in a fashion.

The man worked his mouth open a few times before shaking it as if to clear it and turned back to stare down the empty street. A little dust devil kicked up in front of Finstock's livery, knocking a tumbleweed down the road apiece.

“What are you—”

“Shh! Please!” the man said, holding up a finger before sniffing the air. What in tarnation? 

Stiles stepped off the walkway and onto the dusty street. “What are you looking for?”

A shot rang out, pinging off the dirt so close to Stiles' boot that he jumped in fright.

“That,” the man sighed, whipping around to face the other direction and pulling iron quicker than all get out. While trying to catch his breath, Stiles noted that the man was standing a little in front of him like he was trying to protect Stiles from danger. Aww. It made his heart beat even faster than the near-death experience had done.

“Kate!” the man growled.

“Hale,” a voice said, one that was decidedly female. A woman dressed in dusty, tight-fitting trousers and a man's shirt with a white hat slung low on her forehead obscuring her face stepped around the corner of the town's bank, taking a shoot-off stance. “It's been a while.”

“Can't say as I've missed you,” the man—Hale—said, thumbs at his guns' hammers and fingers resting on the triggers. Gosh, with his pistols waist high, powerful legs spread for balance, and eyes narrowed in concentration, he sure was striking. So was the lady, come to think of it. Stiles had a hard time choosing who to look at before ultimately deciding to keep his eye on the lady with the itchy trigger finger and the bad aim.

“Aww, no?” she said, stepping closer, guns drawn and aimed at Hale. “That hurts my feelings. You know, the whole point in having a dog is that they get excited when you come home.”

Hale growled—like, an actual growl—and Stiles saw his fingers press just a hair more on the trigger. “This ain't your home.”

“It was. Could be again,” she said, tipping her head up so Stiles could see her face under her white hat. She was pretty in a cruel sort of way and oddly familiar. 

“This town ain't big enough for the two of us,” Hale rasped.

“Technically, that's not true,” Stiles said, momentarily distracted from his racing thoughts on why the lady was so familiar looking in order to make an important distinction, “because you are both literally standing within the town's confines, ergo it is physically big enough for the two—”

Another shot rang out, hitting the dirt right between Stiles' feet. Stiles hopped back a step and behind Hale, covering his mouth with both hands and shaking in his boots as Kate trained her left gun back on Hale.

“He with you?” she asked.

“You leave him alone,” Hale said. “Your beef is with me.”

“Should I— Well, darn it.” Stiles sagged and stepped away from Hale to gauge the expression on his face. “Is this some kind of lovers' quarrel?” he asked, pointing between the two of gunslingers. “Because I would rather keep both feet whole and hale—ha, Hale, that's you!” he said grinning at Hale, whose scowl settled deeper on his face, his eyes never leaving Kate's. “Okay. Shutting up now.”

“Thank heavens,” both Hale and Kate said in unison. 

“Hey!”

“Sorry,” Hale murmured, readjusting his stance and eying Kate. “But you're...distracting—” Stiles elated grin almost split his face wide open. He was _distracting_? “—and you let her get the drop on me. Don't you get that you're in danger?”

Kate, however, broke into an evil grin—she'd shot at Stiles' feet, twice. She was officially evil—and trained both her guns on Stiles. “Well, well, if it isn't gettin' awful _interesting_ around here. You want to know what I think?” she asked.

“Uh,” Stiles said, peeking around Hale's large and lovely shoulder. “I guess the appropriate answer to that is yes even though I really wish you'd just—”

Kate ignored him entirely, talking over Stiles' nervous rambling to say to Hale, “I think that you'd be mighty tore up if I shot and killed this pretty kid—”

“I'm actually of age,” Stiles said, raising his hand to get their attention to no avail. “That's...this is my saloon?” Well, at least she thought he was pretty, and he would have sworn that Hale shifted to stand in front of him in a protective way once again at her words.

“—all because you wouldn't give me what I want.” She narrowed her eyes, her grin malicious and strained.

“What's that?” Hale spat out. Literally. He spat phlegm on the ground near his worn boot. Well, at least he hadn't done it on the wooden floors inside. No one ever thought about how hard it was to scrub chaw and spit out of wood flooring, which was another reason why Stiles didn't allow it inside the saloon.

“Why,” Kate said, her eyes wide with innocence, yeah sure, “the deed to the Hale gold mine.” 

Oh, right, there were lives on the line. Mainly his. And Hale's, who wow, apparently had his own gold mine?

“Over my dead body,” Hale hissed.

“That's the plan,” she said, grinning. “But first, how about we take care of your cute little lover boy with a bullet between his—”

A quick series of shots rang out from behind Stiles, making him yelp, “Jumping Jehoshaphat!” and duck down, but not before watching Kate crumple to the ground, her hand at her side. Blood was pouring out of her wounds onto the dry street. 

Stiles looked up to see the familiar sun-beaten face of his father, irons pulled and pointed, one at Hale and one at Kate. “Son,” John said to Hale, “a word of advice. When you have to shoot, shoot. Don't talk.”

Hale spun his guns on his index fingers, slipping them back into the leather holsters at his side. He nodded, tipping his hat at Stiles' father. “Mighty obliged to you, sir. You know who that is?”

“Was,” Stiles said, pointing at Kate's body. It looked like she'd stopped breathing.

“You think you're helping,” his father said quietly, “but you aren't.” To Hale he said, “Why don't you tell me.”

“Kate Argent,” Hale said, walking towards them slowly, as if worried he might get shot full of lead, too. “She and her pa—”

“Shot your Pa, yeah, I heard you before,” the Sheriff said. “Sent for him to be brought here to see our doc, by the by.”

Stiles murmured, “Scott?” 

The Sheriff nodded, and it eased something primal in Stiles to think that Derek's father would be looked after with such care. Scott was a terrific doctor. 

“Thank you for that,” Hale said, nodding once again, his eyes skirting back over Stiles' face before fixing on his father's once again. 

Stiles' father had a steely gaze, as Stiles well knew. He was impressed that Hale didn't seem to be crumpling under it as John Stilinski sized him up before saying, “I thought I'd run her and her old man out of town a few years ago.”

Hale smiled. “That was you? The Argents are a lot like vermin that way. You think you've gotten rid of them, but they've just burrowed deeper.”

“You a Hale? Talia's boy?” the Sheriff asked. 

Hale nodded. “The name's Derek. My family's holdings are just beyond Devil's Gulch, my Pa's been building a new claim shanty out that way. Been out wandering the plains, myself, finally decided it was time to come back and hang my hat what with my Pa all alone now, getting older and all.” With an intense look that felt like it burned straight through Stiles as their eyes locked, Derek added in a softer voice, “Looking for a place to settle down, actually. Place to call my own. A place for me and...well. That all depends, I suppose.”

“You're staying?” Stiles said, standing tall and smoothing his hand over his hair, trying to look just a little debonaire and available. “And...looking?”

“Oh boy,” his father muttered. “Found something already, I reckon.”

“That okay with you?” Derek asked. Asked Stiles' father, that was. Then again, Stiles' answer to that was probably obvious at this point.

“You stay out of trouble, and I don't see no reason we can't get along. Plenty of room for decent folks to make their way. Settle down, maybe start a family if'n they're a mind for such things.”

Derek nodded, then smiled, slow and awful for its sheer handsomeness. Stiles' stomach was already flip flopping from the shootout; Derek grinning at him like something out of a starched shirt catalog was just about too much for him to handle.

“I am. And this one,” Derek said, nodding at Stiles, “already explained that this town is of a size large enough to accommodate the likes of both you and me.”

“Actually,” Stiles interrupted, “what I said was—”

“Stiles,” his father sighed. 

“Well, it's _important_ , you know? Language? Proper word usage?” Stiles was embarrassed and offended until he saw the amused grin on Hale's face. Holy beans, having that directed straight at a fellow was almost cruel.

“Yeah, I'm just gonna say one thing,” the Sheriff said, “and then I'm finding the biggest glass of whiskey I can get my hands on. Son?” He said this to Derek. “I only unloaded three shots in that varmint over there, which means there's plenty more to unload in you if you step out of line.”

“Yessir,” Derek said, still grinning at Stiles, who was finding it hard to breathe. He realized that the force of handsomeness radiating from Derek had caused him to slump forward, and his ribs were smashed up against the hitching rail, so he stood up and smoothed his shirt, straightening his waistcoat while he was at it. Fifth impressions were important, even if he was getting the idea that some sort of transaction had just transpired between his father and Derek Hale and further good impressions might not be needed? Yeah, he was still struggling to breathe.

“Greenberg!” the Sheriff shouted, eyes still stuck on Derek's face. Stiles could appreciate that; Derek was powerful good looking. He was finding it hard to look away, himself, especially since Derek hadn't dropped Stiles' gaze and was looking mighty fond, almost as serene and happy as a pig in mud.

Out of his periphery, Stiles could see the weaselly, pinched face of Greenberg as it poked out of the saloon. “Yessir?”

“Clean up that trash afore the widows come outside and see it.”

Greenberg ran over to Kate's body, calling out, “Right away, Sheriff!” as he begun to drag her off.

With a frosty tone to his voice, the Sheriff asked, “Well, boy, you gonna stare at my son all day or whistle Dixie?”

Derek whistled. It didn't sound a thing like Dixie, Stiles thought, heart sinking. It wouldn't be the first time Stiles had misread a situation, though that didn't take away the sting of rejection. It wasn't like tall, dark strangers with a strong sense of family and tight-fitting chaps wandered into town every day, after all.

“Don't get into any trouble,” the Sheriff said quietly to Stiles, clapping him on the shoulder and headed inside the saloon. “I'll watch the bar. You watch yourself.” With a chuckle, he stepped inside to wild applause and cries for three cheers for the Sheriff, leaving Stiles confused.

He turned to look back at Derek, who was still looking at him with a smile that made his heart pound like a stampede, an ache lodged deep in his chest at the thought that Derek didn't want him after all. A horse trotted up, and Derek swung into the saddle, just as pretty and neat as you please. Well, it was nice while it lasted, Stiles thought, his shoulders sagging with disappointment.

“You keep that mouth open, you're gonna let flies get in,” Derek teased, keeping his dancing, agitated horse circling in place so he could keep looking at Stiles like Stiles was all he ever wanted to look at. Stars and garters...was this—was this happening? Had Erica's lessons _worked_? Stiles shut his mouth with a click.

“Well? You coming or ain't ya?” Derek said, motioning behind himself with a tilt of his head.

“Me?” Stiles asked, turning around to see who could be standing there. There wasn't anyone, so he whipped back to see Derek making himself stop laughing, his eyes dancing with amusement.

“Yeah, you. I like a man who'll stand in the face of a fight with nothing more'n his wits about him. Addlepated as they may be. So? What'll it be?”

Stiles almost fell over the hitching rail before he remembered to walk around it. Derek held a hand out and helped hoist him up. Stiles started sliding off the other side until Derek whipped an arm out and caught him.

Derek said quietly, his voice thick with worry, “Then again...maybe this isn't a good idea.”

“What? No! It's a terrific idea! I like this idea! Full of thought and—”

“It's just that... When I get to liking someone,” Derek continued, “they ain't around long.” 

Stiles chuckled and squeezed his legs tighter to stay upright. “Is that all? Well, I noticed when you get to _dis_ liking someone they ain't around for long neither.”

Derek chuckled. “Hang on.” He clicked his tongue, hollered, “Heeyah!” and the horse bolted down the street. Stiles barely caught the edge of Derek's black leather vest before telling himself to forget it, wrapping his arms around Derek's trim waist, grinning for all he was worth as they cleared the town and hit the open prairie, the sun beginning its final fiery blaze into the distant horizon as it set.

Smiling at how his heart thumped and pounded over the romantic nature of it all—Erica had some of those hush-hush painted lady books that talked about such things happening, but never did he think it would be happening to _him_ , especially not with someone like Derek Hale—he looked up, immediately wincing from the burning light of the setting sun in his face, all but blinding him. 

He tried ducking behind Derek's broad shoulders, but they were the same height. Ducking down low enough made him start slipping off the back end of the horse. It wasn't like there was anything out this direction anyway. Wincing, he blinked and coughed as dust kicked up and blew in his face. “Sure we don't need to go east for a spell?”

“Nope.”

“It's just...” Stiles gripped Derek's waist more tightly. “Well, this reads better than it lives, is all, the whole riding off in the sunset thing.”

He could feel Derek's sigh. “You looking to get kissed or kicked off this horse?”

“Shutting up now.” 

Derek clucked to his horse again, spurring her on faster. “Let's ride!”

“Lord, I hope so...”

**Author's Note:**

> ([redacted] I cannot control where my fanworks' metadata is placed, even though I wish it to remain here. If I had a choice, my fanworks would remain in the realm of fandom in which I place it, aka non-corporate owned review sites such as GR. Personal review/rec lists are not to be considered the same thing and are something with which I have no issue.)


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